


state of imaginary grace

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-10
Updated: 2007-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1625936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that was how Brian found himself bracing against the cold on his way back from spending the day alone in his professor's biolab only to find none other than one John Bender sitting on the stoop of his dorm, shivering from behind his torn scarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	state of imaginary grace

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks and very much love to  <lj user="brooklinegirl"> for the beta, the cheering, the nagging, and the help. She's the best beta a girl could ask for. Any remaining mistakes are mine.   
> 
> 
> Written for Ceares

 

 

Brian walked home from the lab on one of the coldest nights yet. It was Christmas Eve, and the weather seemed to know it. There was hardly any wind, but there didn't need to be for it to feel like the height of winter. He couldn't feel the tips of his fingers, even tucked as they were into the depths of his pockets. His scarf barely protected his nose from the chill, and his hat kept riding up, so that the cold air danced around his ears and burned them. His eyes watered and his eyelashes froze.

It had been his choice to stay away from home this Christmas, and he was mostly happy about that. Even after he'd gotten into Harvard, and proved himself to be a top student in the hardest institution in the country, his mother had never really let up. His father only encouraged her. His sixteen year old sister was driving them both crazy with hormones and boys and dramatics, and every time Brian visited them all at home, he only felt worse afterwards.

No, he was a senior in college and he could make his own choices now. His roommate's girlfriend Angela had invited him to stay with her family in Worcester, but he didn't really know them. This year, he didn't want to spend Christmas trying to keep up a conversation among all strangers. But it'd been nice of her to offer.

Even Alison had told him to visit her in Portland. She had called about a month ago, and in between telling him about her backpacking across China plans, asked him what he was doing for Christmas.

"I'm not setting off for China until after graduation, so if you want, I'll be here," she'd said in her husky monotone. They'd become close over the years, even if college life on opposite coasts prevented them from seeing much of each other. Alison had found her niche on the West Coast, and Brian realized that life in the East was a lot more interesting than in the middle. He'd found his own set of friends, like his roommate of three years Jim, Jim's girlfriend Angela, as well as Pam, their token activist for all things equal, and Christopher, who was convinced that he was the next - and more sophisticated - Stephen King.

Still, Alison's invitation was tempting - but it was simply too expensive. A round-trip plane ticket was completely out of his reach. No, Brian thanked her and sent her a Christmas card and gift (a wallet with many compartments, to remind her of her bag lady days), and she sent him a card with a pretty Christmas tree on it, with her giving him the middle finger drawn in. It was good to keep in touch, he thought, and smiled.

In fact, he had kept in touch with everyone from their Breakfast Club. Claire was leading the most interesting life of them all - she'd moved to Paris right after graduation. It was meant to have been a short, celebratory trip with her brother, but when push came to shove, she had stayed behind and never returned. Brian admired that about her. In the end, she did what she wanted, how she wanted it. Now, she was a Sous Chef at some frou-frou "fusion" restaurant, and every now and then Brian would receive a care package from her, addressed to a Monsieur Johnson, bearing dry French biscuits and a bottle of red wine, packaged beautifully and meticulously. And every now and then, she would include pictures of herself in front of Parisian landmarks, looking carefree and beautiful and chic. Alison had taken to calling her "Eclaire" and occasionally sending her postcards with cows on them, supposedly to get her so homesick, she would have to come back. So far, it hadn't worked.

Andy was not one for sending gifts or letters, but he could always be relied on for a phone call or two a semester. As far as Brian could tell, Andy was happy up in Michigan State. He had escaped the clutches of his family and was retaining his wrestling scholarship pretty well. He was the star of his team and dating a different girl every time Brian talked to him. It was good to talk to Andy - his conversation was never complicated, and Brian found that every time he would start to lose himself in his studies and his own head, talking to Andy would ground him and bring him back. Andy was a good guy. Brian considered himself to be very lucky where friends were concerned.

Ironically, or so he thought, he talked the most to John. It started out with John bugging him to help him with his homework. In opposition to every expectation ever laid on him, John graduated high school with his class and went onto a community college the very next fall. Brian had still been in high school, but Bender's homework had presented no problems for him. Thus, he got to ride on the modicum of cool that John had injected him with during school, and John got to ride on Brian's brain power all the way through his first year of community college.

Not that Brian supported that kind of thing, of course. He didn't actually _do_ John's homework for him. Well. Not at _first_ , anyway. But eventually, John got so good at tricking him, Brian knew when he had been defeated. Nevertheless, even John was sometimes interested in learning, so it mostly worked out to a degree Brian was comfortable with.

Once he went away to Harvard, Brian expected John to forget all about him, and find a new geek to shake down for the answers he'd need at Illinois State. However, John insisted that Brian continue to help him long-distance. He would call at ten or eleven at night and Brian would trudge into the common room of his dorm, where the communal phone sat on a dilapidated bench, and explain the principles of algebra for an hour and a half. Of course, that wasn't all they talked about. John would go off on tangents about his teachers (he refused to call them "professors," instead referring to them as "sub-par academic butt monkeys," which Brian chose to let go and rise above), his often-times difficult home life, and, occasionally, the girls he was seeing.

See, things between Claire and Bender had ended when she moved away. Brian had wondered how John would take it, but John had simply shrugged and kept the diamond earring. Brian didn't know if the two kept in touch at all, but he did know that Claire had done the right thing. And if Brian was also secretly (and hopelessly, and, most of all, stupidly) happy about the outcome, he rarely ever dwelled on it. The most important thing was that he had his friends, so many years afterwards, and he was happy.

And that was how he found himself bracing against the cold on his way back from spending the day alone in his professor's biolab, taking down stats from their experiment and quietly singing Christmas carols to himself, only to find none other than one John Bender sitting on the stoop of Brian's dorm, shivering from behind his torn scarf.

* * *

In all his four years of higher learning, Brian had had exactly two dates. They had both been with two different people, and had approximately the same level of success - they had both failed _miserably._

The first one was with a girl from his 17th Century Lit class named Amanda. Amanda had been bright and outspoken, and Brian liked her straight away for that. She was cute and she had insightful things to say, and that was a refreshing change from high school. When he'd asked her out, she'd shrugged and smiled in one go, said, "Sure, why not!" and immediately suggested "that great burger place across the street." Brian had never actually gone in there, though he'd seen the line out the door, whenever he passed by to get to the book store. But just at that moment, he didn't care if the line was out into the next town over. Amanda had said yes! To a date! With _him!_ He beamed all the way to the library.

Of course, he should have known better. While the burgers _were_ truly excellent, the date had sunk like a dead weight as soon as they'd sat down. The place was loud and too fast-paced to keep up with. He'd kept having to ask Amanda to repeat what she'd said, turning more and more crimson with each time, and she'd looked more impatient and unhappy as the date went on.

Amanda, it had turned out, wasn't really interested in much Brian had to say. She talked and talked - about everything, from her family to her pet to her plans for after college - until finally, she mentioned her on-again, off-again long-distance boyfriend at Berkley. That was when the precarious glob of mustard mixed in with ketchup slid inextricably downwards and onto Brian's sweater, a slice of onion landed on his crotch, and Amanda turned away and called for the check, before letting Brian know that he was a nice enough guy, but she really _did_ miss her boyfriend, and oh, he had mustard on his sweater, did he know that? She left him with the check.

The second date happened much later, after most of the horror of the first one had evaporated from Brian's memory. This date was named Josh, and it happened by complete accident. There was not a single part of that date that Brian wanted to think about in the future, taking away from it only two important facts: 1) Brian liked guys just the same as he liked girls, and 2) Brian was absolute crap at dating both. After having crashed and burned for the second time, he decided to put the kibosh on even _thinking_ about dating until he stopped enjoying molecular biology more than horrible drunken kissing.

And even though John Bender showing up on his stoop out of nowhere like that could have meant a thousand different things, Brian was sharply reminded of a feeling he had had before both of his ill-fated encounters: the terrifying excitement of his stomach dropping out and returning with butterflies.

He stood in front of John for possibly a full minute, in which he forgot to feel the cold at all, before finally gripping his keys and croaking, "John! What are you doing here?"

Up until the question came, John had been watching Brian silently, with the slightest of grins playing on his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Now he unbent himself off the stoop and stood up in front of Brian. Brian had grown since the last time they'd seen each other, and they were now almost equal in height. Nevertheless, the intimidation of John's mere presence was enough to send Brian back to feeling like he was a high school freshman all over again.

John stood in front of him, mere inches apart, and finally spoke, his voice raspy from the cold.

"Merry fucking Christmas, Johnson, now will you let me in? I've been freezing my fucking ass off out here for almost an hour." John sounded slightly annoyed, but Brian wasn't really a high school freshman any longer. Feeling the first tingle of friendly defiance, he shook off the snow from his boots and grinned.

"You didn't tell me you were coming. I didn't get a chance to rig up my stoop heater."

He watched John's red face break into a bigger grin. "Well, I figured, with your gentle constitution, you'd have the whole campus heated by now. Anyway, you know I'm here now, and I'm still freezing my fucking ass off. C'mon, Johnson, hop to it."

Still smiling, Brian ducked his head and shook out his keys. "Sure, sure, just hang on a minute."

He let them in and made sure to lock the door behind them, his head still reeling from the unexpected (and inexplicable) visit. As soon as they were inside, he felt his skin prickle all over with the heat. His eyes stung. He looked at John and only now he made out all the changed details of John's face. He'd thinned out, his cheeks having gained a definition they'd lacked even last summer. His skin was flaming red from being outside, but he was smiling - a mysterious and cocky smile, so very much _John_ , and so very much _exactly_ what Brian had been missing that he quickly turned away and led them up the stairs to the top floor.

"So, these your digs?" John asked behind him, climbing the stairs noisily, huffing and puffing and muttering about the cold.

"Yep. It's the senior dorm, and they let me stay over winter vacation because of my research." Brain felt his answers as automatic, as if it were an everyday, normal occurrence to have his best friends paying him unexpected holiday visits. In a flash, he wondered if John was spending the night or passing by to say "hello" and then be gone.

John whistled. "You an important man around here, or what?"

Brian felt his cheeks heat up even more. "Nah. They, uh - they do that for any upperclassman who's doing independent research." He fumbled at the very top stair. "Or woman. I mean, uh, upperclassman _or_ woman, you know? Just - any -"

John, having caught up with him, now backed him up and cornered him by door #314. Brian fumbled for his keys and attempted to turn around, John's body against his making movement nearly impossible.

"I got it, Johnson. Seniors," John breathed into the air between them. Backed into a corner, Brian had nowhere else to look now but at John, and so he did, trying to clear his throat and not fidget. They were at eye level.

It was so _good_ to see him; so good (if strange and strangely new) to feel John's body so close Brian's, to smell him, and to pretend, just for a second - before he remembered that one of John's many girlfriends actually lived close by - that he was there for Brian and Brian alone.

Now that his body was used to the heat of the building, Brian felt sweaty, his scalp prickling under his hat, his neck itching to get out of his scarf. He knew that he couldn't stand the heat for even another second, so he cleared his throat again and made himself talk.

"I'm just - I'm right in the next room over. Let me just - it's hot -"

John stepped back instantly and without a word, looking as if he'd almost been caught stealing. Brian was grateful for the heat receding. He wanted to get inside his room and take off his coat. He wanted to see his familiar things. It only hit him as he opened the door that now he would have to share those familiar things with John and he felt scared, and exhilarated, and he breathed through it all.

* * *

"And this is your casa, huh?" John asked, once they were through the door.

"Yes, this is - this is it." Brian laid his keys on top of his dresser and fidgeted with his gloves. He didn't know what to do next, so he took off his jacket, hung it up, and watched John survey his room.

"This your desk?" John pointed and hopped up on it, butt-first, looking around with mild interest.

Brian ducked his head and smiled. "How did you guess?"

"C'mon, Johnson, it's all _books._ Got any, uh, what was his face? Oh, yeah - Moliere?" he asked, his face turned away from Brian.

Brian looked up in surprise. "I love his work," he blurted out before he could even think about it.

John smirked and looked at Brian through his bangs. Brian thought his insides would melt. "So that's a yes, then." He turned and reached unerringly for the volume of Moliere amidst the neat rows of books on Brian's bookshelf, and for a long minute, he sat on Brian's desk and flipped the pages carefully, seeming to actually be looking at the words and taking them in.

Brian took the time to breathe. Seeing John right there, in his room, on his _desk_ \- it didn't compute. What was he even doing there, why was he _here_? Brian never truly allowed himself to think about John anymore than he had to, from one phone call to the next. He never allowed it because he feared where it would lead. But the truth was that he had fantasized about this scenario more times than was acceptable by any standards. None of his high school crushes, and certainly none of his dates, had ever caused him to stop breathing the way John had, back in the hall. None of them had ever challenged him, none of them had ever struck him mute and deaf and so entirely _stupid_ as John had, from almost the very beginning.

It had taken a long time for Brian to put a name to the sum of all those things, and longer yet to put it out of his mind. It had been easy enough to do when he was here in Cambridge, and John was there, in Illinois. Cambridge was for studying, independence, and - he hoped - personal growth, of some kind. Illinois was for family, past, confusion and - John.

Now, though, he was in Cambridge, and so was John, and all the confusion was clouding his head, like a wall crumbling between them - leaving him shaken and unsettled.

"Johnson? You all right?" John asked him, breaking the settled silence of them room.

Startled, Brian looked up and John was watching him, one hand poised over a page. For a moment, Brian expected John to rip it out.

"Yes, of course!" was what he finally said when he shook himself off.

"'Cause you were looking kind of doped up there. Happy to see me?" John propped one hand against the table and leaned back, mouth pursing in a smirk in Brian's direction.

The room got hot again. He'd have to talk to the building assistant about the terrible way the heat came and went in this dorm. "Sure, of course. Are you - how long are you here for?" he asked, avoiding the real question.

"We'll see. Don't know yet," John shrugged and closed the book on his lap with a snap. "Mind if I -" He mimed smoking and began reaching inside his pocket.

"Sure, sure, go ahead," Brian answered and made himself walk forward, so he could open the window.

He was reaching past John to unlock the frame when he felt a tug on his clothes. He looked down and John's hand was wrapped around the bottom of Brian's sweater, pulling him in. His heart raced and his mind stopped. He watched himself move forward and finally looked up when he was a mere inch from John's body. His voice hadn't broken in years, but he didn't want to test it now, so he stayed absolutely quiet and still while John watched the place where they were joined.

It felt like infinite time. Brian knew, objectively, that it wasn't actually years - it wasn't even months, or days, or _minutes._ It was simply infinite, the time in which he turned and John's hand pulled him close. He stood in front of him and shook, full-body, waiting, until he couldn't wait any longer.

"John?" His voice, though quiet, carried an edge that shattered the stillness of the room.

He watched as John looked up from his hand, coming back from some place that Brian didn't know - his eyes were unfocused, and almost alarmed. Right then, he dropped his hand from Brian's sweater and dipped it into his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes and a small box. Brian breathed out and did not allow himself to feel the disappointment of a moment gone.

"Here, that's for you," John said dismissively. Brian barely had time to stand back as the box flew towards him. He caught it in one hand, shocking himself. It was wrapped in red and green paper. "Merry Christmas," John added and turned towards the window, sliding it open. The sound of carolers entered their room on a gust of wind. They wished them a Merry Christmas, they wished them a Merry Christmas, they _wished them a Merry Christmas_ , and a happy New Year.

Brian stood back, mutely watching the box in his hand, then looked up at John. John was lighting his cigarette. Brian hated the idea of smoking, and he hated the smell of it even more, but he could never bring himself to look away from this. He was mesmerized by the movement of John's thumb on the lighter, by the snick that it made at the connection, by John's lips wrapping around the cigarette. John's bangs fell long enough to obscure most of his face, and so Brian made up the rest of the details for himself - the closed eyes, the flaring nostrils, the suction of the cheeks.

Brian looked away. "Wow, uh - thanks," he finally said, hefting the small box in his hand. "That was really nice of you."

John shrugged and blew the smoke out of the open window. The wind outside picked it up and carried the cloud over the trees and out into the yard. "Whatever, I'd had it for a while. You should open it before thanking me, anyway."

Brian nodded and tore into the wrapping paper.

Inside the box was a watch. It wasn't new, just as John had implied. But it was beautiful. Instead of a strap, it had a long gold chain, the same color as the watch itself. The face was slightly yellowed, but the numbers were ornate. They looked precise and perfect. The thing was heavy in his hand. It wasn't just old, he realized - it was antique. Brian looked up in astonishment and met John's gaze.

"Like it?" John nodded in the direction of the watch.

"It's - wow, it's beautiful. Are you - are you sure?" He knew that it was probably an ungracious thing to say, but the watch looked expensive, and Brian was - who really _was_ he to John, to receive such a gift?

"Oh, please." John shrugged. "Keep it." He stubbed out his cigarette on the window sill, leaving a dusty gray circle behind, and leaned forward to slide the window shut. His ragged sweater rode up and exposed a thin strip of skin above his waistband. Brian stared until John moved back and caught him in the act. Brian flinched and looked away, taking the opportunity to set the watch down carefully on his dresser and slide open the third drawer.

There, on the left side, was the scarf he'd gotten for John. When he'd seen it in the store, all he'd been able to think that was that he'd found the perfect gift. It was red plaid, made of out of this really soft Scottish wool. He'd had enough money from working in the lab that it wasn't _that_ much of an expense, really, and he'd - he'd thought that John could really use it, up there in Chicago, with all that wind. What he hadn't anticipated was how out of place it would look in his slightly shabby room, among his threadbare socks and pajama bottoms, with John sitting right behind him, watching his every move. He hadn't anticipated seeing John's face when he opened his present.

"I, uh -" Brian began, then cleared his throat. "I got you something, too, but I didn't - uhm, I didn't get a chance to wrap it."

He extended his hand towards John and the scarf slipped from his fingers as John took it. His face downcast and eyelashes lowered, he held it in one hand, while untying his own scarf with the other. John didn't say anything until Brian's present was safely wrapped around his neck. He patted it down, looking over the edges, and nodded, now looking Brian in the eye,

"Nice. Very nice, Johnson - thanks. Mine was getting kind of ratty." He threw his own scarf in the garbage can next by the desk. Brian watched John sitting on his desk, wearing his new beautiful scarf, and smiled, flushing.

"I'm glad you like it. I'm - really, really glad."

He sank down onto his bed and finally allowed himself to breathe. He had no idea what to do, or what to say, so he let John be the judge of that, because John could always be counted on to say _something_ , even if that something was exactly the wrong thing to say at exactly the wrong time.

"So, where's your roomie?" John asked, once again reaching into his coat pockets. Brian sensed a bigger question coming on, and watched John's gloved hands with some trepidation as they searched within the Mary Poppins-like pockets.

"Family... girlfriend... Christmas," he answered.

"Excellent," John huffed and produced two cans of Bud Light. Brian caught his before he could even process it. "The party's on."

"Don't - aren't you - aren't you here to see a family member? Girlfriend, maybe?" Brian's voice caught on that word, and he cursed at himself inwardly.

"No girlfriend," John said, so casually that Brian almost believed him. He watched John take his first sip.

Brian's fingers fumbled with the flip-flop. His mind produced more scenarios. Was John maybe expecting more people? Was Brian's room, maybe, just a venue for a party, because John couldn't provide his own? Brian worried the can of beer while trying to formulate the question in the most diplomatic and un-freaked out way possible.

"You all right?" John asked, tipping the can back. "You look a little freaked out there, big guy."

Brian cleared his throat. The wall behind John was dimly lit and the white of the paint melted into the beige of the light bulb. It was a safe color, and he knew, without asking, that John wasn't expecting anybody else.

"Yeah," he finally answered. "I'm - I'm great, John. Uhm - Merry Christmas," he finished, raising his beer like a toast. John mirrored his movement, and mouthed the same words. He smile was not the blinding event that had kept Brian up at night for all these years of their friendship, but it shook him up and melted his insides and made him feel stupid and light.

And once he finished his first beer, Brian did what he never thought he would do: reached into Chris's mini-fridge and presented John with a six-pack.

* * *

The room was a steady, pulsating _warmth._ It made Brian happy. Lying back on his pillow, he was watching the shadows on the wall, made animated and strange by the movements of John's hands. John had taken off his gloves and his hands were pink and a little rough-looking, but neat. Brian found himself somewhat surprised at the neatness of John's hands. John, after all, was never the sort of guy who took too much stock in personal hygiene.

Brian laughed to himself at the thought and continued smiling.

He probably shouldn't have had all those beers - he never drank, really, he didn't. But John had looked at him in such a way, after he produced the beer, that Brian had become putty in his hands.

Of course - and here was liquid courage talking, he was sure - he had never really been otherwise. Since day _one_ , he had been John's, in whatever shape. He always was, always had been. Looking at John now, he could swear that he would always _be._

John's leg was bent at the knee as he lay stretched out next to Brian. Back against the wall, in the shadow of the dresser, he looked like a lean cat - dangerous and smart and beautiful.

Nostrils flaring, he was telling Brian a story from work - something about an old and decrepit customer who got him on the wrong day - and watching him from behind his bangs.

He never cut his hair, Brian thought. It couldn't have been an accident. He must have, _must_ have known what effect it had on people. It did on Claire. It did on Brian, as well.

"You listening?" John's quiet voice cut into Brian's reverie. Slowly, his neck made out of cotton or putty or something equally pliable and soft, Brian turned towards the voice calling him. He blinked - it felt slow, like in a liquid dream - and nodded, licking his lips of the last dregs of alcohol.

"Yep. I think so."

John's face melted into a slow and brilliant smile. "What was the last thing I said then?"

They were lying side by side now, having shifted by increments throughout the last hour. It only hit Brian now that John was close. He was so very, very close, and Brian could smell his breath - beer, his last cigarette, warmth. The warmth puffed against Brian's face and dissipated.

"You said," Brian answered slowly, "you listening. That's what you said."

"Cheater. That's not what I meant." Was Brian getting drunker, or was John getting even closer? He couldn't tell. His hand made a fist - his blanket felt like compliance under his touch - and he squinted.

"Technically -" he began, but never finished.

Instead, he found his mouth slick with John's, lips flush - then open - and then they were kissing, kissing - and under his touch, he found that John could feel like compliance and power and grace.

His mind reeled, and he felt his hand land on John's shoulder to push him away. "Wait, I - John -"

"Shut up, Brian," John whispered and stroked a finger against Brian's chin.

Brian spiraled and swayed and he fell.

* * *

Brian woke up sometime in the middle of the night. He hadn't dreamed, but in the state between asleep and not, he remembered snatches and visions and words.

"You're so dumb for a smart guy -"  
"Yes, that, oh God, please -"  
"Jesus Christ, Johnson, Brian -"  
"Oh -"

Fully coming to, he snapped up. John wasn't in bed next to him. Brian felt remarkably naked now, burrowed under sheets and blankets. He was all raw skin. Where was John?

Brian turned his head as his eyes followed a faint shadow. There, on his window sill, John sat and smoked. His cigarette dangled out the window and sent wisp after wisp out into the cold. The wind picked them up, one at a time, two, three, one again, and sent them off. The carolers continued their singing from hours ago - were they different singers? Did they not stop on Christmas Eve? Their music comforted Brian, fitting so perfectly into this small, warm room.

He watched John sitting on the window sill, wrapped up in his coat and new scarf, blowing smoke out the window and smiling the smallest of smiles. Brian pillowed his head on his hands, and smiled himself.

 

The End.

 


End file.
